Hat Trick
by gschelt
Summary: In which I literally draw names for pairings out of a hat. Collection of oneshots. All femslash, all the time.
1. The DownLow: Hazel A, Emma N

_**Author's Note:** I really did go from experimenting with pairings for my own sick fancy and figured, shit, why not go the whole nine yards? And now I'm picking them out of a hat for this project. 17 names, female Degrassi characters from the sweet old school favorites to the newer characters. How does this work? It's pretty simple. I pick 2 names and write a oneshot for the pair. So, next question I'm guessing, when will I quit? I'm thinking when I use up each name. _  
_Quick note, I'm going to give a shout-out to KT the Shimmer Skank, because while I sure as hell didn't copy this idea from her (I never copy!), this project has some similarities to her story Assorted Flavors. If you're reading this right now because you love compilations of random pairings, definitely go check out that story of hers._  
_Quick note #2, I tagged this as Paige/Alex simply because I'm a glutton for readers and know that the Palex fandom has the most activity. Besides, it's not exactly cheating. Kindof._  
_Lastly, most important thing, please give me oodles & oodles of reviews. They are like wonderful nutritious sustenance for my soul. _  
_This should be a fun ride. :D_  
_I own nothing. _

* * *

**The Down-Low**

**Pairing:** Hazel A./Emma N.

It's after a big game versus those cross-town rivals. That game that was preceded by a shit ton of flyers, pep rallies, and general excitement headed by those mainly involved. No one was more excited, of course, than the basketball team and the Spirit Squad. The cheerleaders naturally spearheaded the anticipation. The girls at the table just next to yours, the popular ones like Paige and Hazel, wore blue and yellow for a solid week beforehand. And your best friend, Manny, couldn't stop talking about it.

It's after the game that you're waiting for Manny; you're her ride, after all. You thought that going outside would be less crowded and less claustrophobic for you, but with the fans streaming out the doors and milling about it's not much better. At least there's fresh air. It was so stuffy in the gym it makes the December weather outside welcoming, at least for the ten minutes or so you'll be out here.

A couple of freshman kids jostle you as they squeeze by towards a purple minivan, but they don't hear you mutter your irritated _excuse me_. It's really doing nothing for your mood. Just another reminder why you really don't like going to these school games. It's not your scene at all. Even when Degrassi wins, even in a big rivalry game like this, you're not so gung-ho as everyone else. Everything is all just so _loud_. You edge over to a secluded corner of railing and sigh, breath coming out in a plume of vapor as you lean against the cold metal. No, you're pretty low on the school spirit.

"Emma, hey Emma."

You twist your head back and forth behind you, caught off guard after getting distracted by your thoughts. It's Hazel, coming towards you, resplendently preppy in her Spirit Squad sweats, Panthers duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey," you greet her slowly, turning your body to face her. "Have you seen Manny?"

"What? No." She brushes off your question quickly, and you feel a twinge of dislike in your chest. Usually that doesn't happen until after a few more sentences. "Good game, huh?" Hazel segways brightly.

"Oh, yeah," you answer, nodding, trying to sound convincingly pleased with the victory. "The squad looked great out there too."

Hazel flashes a smile at you in acknowledgment, but she's really not even paying attention to you because her gaze drifts over to the ramp next to the railing. Then back to you. "Emma, can I talk to you for a sec?"

What the hell does she want to talk to you for? You've hardly ever carried out a full conversation together before. "Sure."

But for some reason she needs to talk in _private_, so she leads you off to the side of the building by some dumpsters. You would ask her what the hell this is about, but you figure she'll tell you soon enough, so you just cross your arms and wait for her mouth to open again.

"Emma," she begins, "you know me," (which is a lie, because you really don't even though she's popular). "I've always gotta know the down-low. If I hear something, I'll wanna know if it's true. If I don't know the situation, I'll wanna be well-informed. You know how it is, right?"

You don't know how that is either, since you personally aren't a gossip and don't need to know everyone's business at all times. You figure Hazel is just about to ask you about some rumor. So you just shrug. "Sure."

"So I just wanna know," she goes on, brown eyes determined even though her voice is friendly, "who do you like?"

"Um. What?" Is she serious?

"It's no big deal," she says imploringly, "I won't tell anyone. I just wanna set the record straight."

You look into her eager eyes and over to the dumpsters, back to the churning crowd of fans not too far away, chatting with friends and waiting for rides. This conversation is ridiculous. "I don't like anyone right now."

"Are you sure?" Hazel challenges in that way that women and girls do in a tone of voice that sounds like you're close friends.

_Um, let me think about that for a second_. "Yes, I'm sure." It takes all your will power not to roll your eyes.

"You can trust me," she presses, as though being a fellow female automatically makes her trustworthy. "Because I heard from someone that you have a thing for Jimmy, and if it was true I would want to know straight from the source, you know?"

Well, at least it makes sense now. All Hazel is doing is chasing a groundless threat to the guy she likes, has liked for years now. It's so shallow and predictably _girly_ that you can hardly stand it.

"No," you sigh, "I don't have a thing for Jimmy."

"You can be honest with me," she continues, smiling with a concern in her eyes that you can readily recognize as fake. "If you like him I swear I wouldn't tell anyone." And you realize that she won't let this go, she doesn't want to hear the truth. She _wants_ to hear you admit you like Jimmy, so she can secretly revel in the triumph of being right and go plot ways to make sure it never happens.

If you don't say something, this conversation will just go in circles for god knows how long.

"Well actually," you murmur, knitting your brow, "I do like _someone_."

Hazel's eyes, predictably, light up. "Who? Who is it?"

You swallow (you really should have pursued acting) and lean forward to press your lips to hers.

It's a stiff five seconds, and when you pull apart you level a shy and vulnerable gaze on Hazel. She looks scalded, and stares at you like she's just witnessed cannibalism or something. It doesn't take long for her to say something.

"I've gotta go," she stammers. "I'll see you around, Emma." And just like that, she turns on her heel and bolts.

"Keep this on the down-low!" you cry out to her retreating figure in a strained voice. You watch her, standing on your tiptoes and breathing out shivering gray air, and as she disappears from sight your phone buzzes in your pocket. You flip it open to read a text from Manny.

_waiting in front of the gym. where r u?_

You snap it shut and start jogging around to the front doors. It's hard to keep a chuckle from breaking across your lips.


	2. Heaven: Anya M, Holly J S

_**Author's Note:** I couldn't believe my luck when I actually drew this pair. & you guys, I seriously don't even know Anya's last name. I barely know the girl at all._  
_Readers, you know I love you. Now return the favor & review your hearts away._

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**Heaven**

**Pairing:** Anya M./Holly J. S.

You've actually never played 7 Minutes in Heaven before now. Sure, you've been to parties before – though not a whole lot, granted – but it's never been more than Spin the Bottle. And, through some sort of freak stroke of luck, you've never even had to kiss a girl. You thought you'd put that danger – the danger of giggling, drunk, sloppy and somehow _scary_ kisses with some girl – behind you.

But now of course you're older, at parties that have outgrown those games, and sure enough at this one Peter Stone has this brilliant idea, and everyone is wild about it. And, sure enough, you're paired with a girl, which makes everyone howl with delight all the more because of how outrageous it is, and sure enough she has to be Anya.

It's been so long since you've even spoken to her. One a scale of one to awkward, it'll probably be awkward.

So you shuffle into that closet together, and once the dim bulb overhead flickers to life you turn to face her, and you would swear to god no time has passed at all because she looks meek like she always used to when you were best friends. When you controlled her, that is. Enough time has gone by so that you can admit that, you _were_ horrible. But that was a long time ago, and you've gone your separate ways and both seem to have changed. You, you've humbled yourself in so many ways and lost your reputation as a _total_ bitch. And Anya, she's become independent and made lots of real, good friends; more than you have. She's grown by leaps and bounds, and looks happy.

This is why you find yourself almost fearful of her as you both stand face-to-face, body languages speaking wary and watchful words. It's because you don't know her anymore, and being lumped into this situation by a now-stranger who used to be so much more to you is far, far worse than being locked in a closet with someone you've literally never met.

"This is dumb," you finally announce, unlocking your tongue from the back of your throat.

Anya smooths her hair calmly (but now that she's alone with you some of that old Anya, the timid Anya, shadows the expression of her face like an old familiar glove). "Pretty much," she agrees. She hesitates on the verge of adding something else conversational, but stops short.

"Well," you sigh, clasping your sweating palms together, "Might as well do this."

And you both awkwardly step close, bumping arms and shoulders, looking at your feet. Anya blushes, and you put a hand on her shoulder both to steady yourself and to get started. You chuckle wryly.

"Oh, come on." Your low voice is exasperated, but not with her. With yourself, mainly, with the way this had to end up. "Don't you remember how this goes?" The memories pain you every time.

Anya's face turns down, like she can't stand the thought, or maybe it's just embarrassment. For a second you really _do_ believe that she's a stranger, that this is not only your first time playing 7 Minutes in Heaven but also your first time (about to be) kissing a girl.

You sigh again, and clumsily, for the sake of the stupid game, bring your chin to hers and find her mouth. You almost had yourself believing it's your first time kissing Anya.

Almost.

The steady rumble of music and voices outside the closet go on, and still you hate the impossible probability of this happening, and hate Peter Stone for his _wonderful_ idea. But somehow, that kind of takes a back seat as you reflect that some things never change. After everything has been upended, shaken out, and replaced with Anya, she still tastes like citrus gum.

She's motionless, like clay, and you wonder what she's thinking, if your kiss has shocked her back to her old self again, from the very first time. She had cried, then, and in your confusion between past and present you reach your fingers to her face to brush tears that aren't there, a gesture you never cared to make way back then. It's all a bit like Alzheimer's to you, and you feel embarrassed because after all this is just a dumb game of 7 Minutes in Heaven.

But Anya isn't a statue forever. She tilts her chin down and hesitantly moves her lips against yours, body language telling you it's against her better judgment. But by now you want to stop. If only for a moment.

"You're different," you mutter, but it's not accusatory, you're not like that anymore, it's an observation. Anya doesn't meet your eyes. She rests her forehead against yours and gazes down at your collarbone.

"I'm not that puppet anymore." And she recaptures your lips in hers, twining three fingers in your hair, and proves it. Where once it was pressure from you, experimenting, and a quick fix to satisfy a need that you couldn't explain, now it's overwhelming pressure in your gut, experimenting, and a need to fix things that you can neither explain nor invest too much hope in. Really, you had actually never wondered if Anya hated you, if she ever forgave you, before tonight, but here you are stuck alone together and it's like old times again. But as you kiss now you have the strangest certainty that this time around you're the one who's scared to death. And vaguely, you envision the two of you friends again, with your repaired personalities, and it's kind of like heaven.

You break away again, after a little while, realizing your seven minutes must almost be up. There's heat on your cheeks, and you know how it will look to Peter and Chantay and the others, but fuck that. You've been through awkward enough, their sly glances wouldn't faze you.

Before Anya reaches for the door (because explanations before departure have never been big for either of you), you have to say just one thing.

"I'm sorry." It's firm, in a voice that will always be you no matter how many times or ways you crack. And it rings with bittersweet conviction.

Anya's eyes soften, in the way they always had towards you no matter what, but you know that just because she softens doesn't mean she's weak.

"I'll text you some time," she says gently, her hand on the latch. And she allows a small smile as she slips out.


	3. Vice, Vice, Baby: Darcy E, Paige M

_**Author's Note:** At first I was like, Hat, why won't you give me a pair I've never written about before? Then I figured I'd do something cool. I know a couple people gave me feedback for my story Bubblegum, wondering about Darcy's thought process there. So this chapter is kindof a companion piece for Bubblegum. Happy? I am. :) The only thing I'm not proud of is having come up with the worst title in history. _  
_You know what to do._

* * *

**Vice, Vice, Baby**

**Pairing:** Darcy E./Paige M. 

You think about Paige the way your father thinks about gambling; horribly wrong, but addictive, and since it's your one and only truly irrevocable vice, God will _have_ to have no choice but excuse you from it. It's something sinners convince themselves of, selfishly. It's harmless.

Besides, when it's all said and done you're of two minds; either it's not wrong to love a girl, or you'll surely have enough time to be contrite of it before you die. Sunday school teaches adamantly against that second attitude, but then again they're talking about things like lying and cheating. You're talking about love, here.

Well, maybe love hasn't got a whole lot to do with it, _yet_. In all honesty (this is embarrassing), you've talked to the girl all of two times. Love is reserved for lovers, and for you the more apt term is probably desire. And now, there's lots of teaching on _that_, but you know the rules well enough to know what your reasonable limits are. God can forgive you a little lust.

But that doesn't mean you don't _want_ to do sinful things (the word sinful is ancient and reproachful to you, like a Sunday school ruler from the 1950s). You think about placing your hand on Paige's knee (innocent enough), but soon enough in your daydreams your palm is sliding up her thigh and kissing isn't _too_ bad, even when it's same-sex, but the same can't be said for invasion of the Spirit Squad uniforms by hungry hands. That's pretty much all you can think about in practice. You get so distracted that your hair is usually almost all the way fallen out of its bun by the time the second water break is over, and you're to the point of smiling at everything your captain says. You don't want to know what she thinks of you; you know how foolish you must come across, and the thought makes you cringe.

All the rules against you don't make you freeze, though. Sure, there's guilt, but already you'd made your amends with God and figured He'd understand, and with that out of the way you didn't have anyone else to worry about appeasing. You feel strongly for Paige, and you're scared, but letting it bubble inside you will simply drive you insane. You've got to talk to her, at least, or do _something_. She likes girls too, you've known that for months now ever since she came out (with a bang), so you're not worried about that. You're just a typical teenager, is all, and you've got insecurities like everyone else. You worry that she won't like you, that you'll trip or say something stupid, all sorts of other things.

But it all comes with the territory; not with being gay, which you've had an inkling for years that you might be, but with being a teenager. With being a human. You've got those obstacles, those rules and those insecurities all lumped together, but you've never been the type of girl to let those things stop you in your tracks. You remember back to Sunday school years ago, actually, when you think about inspiration for your lesbian crush (how ironic), and see that poster in the classroom in your memory. It's perfectly fitting now (and probably always will be, for you): "You'll always miss 100% of the shots you don't take."


	4. One, Two, Three: Alex N, Mia J

_**Author's Note:** So I drew these two just before getting into bed at 4 a.m., and I looked at the names in the dark using my phone to see, and I literally said "Oh, me likey." Why did I never think of this pair before? Also, I know the "one, two, three" thing is kinda gimmicky, but I feel like being creative so leavemealone._  
_Reviews, as always, make me indescribably happy. _

* * *

**One, Two, Three**

**Pairing:** Alex N./Mia J.

one

It's after the second time Paige has broken up with you, you think (it's terrible, but you just might have lost count), so you want to regress and be bad again and you're younger again. Long story short, you're back at the Ravine. You've been done with Degrassi for a little while now so it's stupid to be here, but you don't care because you've been dumped by the first girl you've ever loved (for maybe the third time) and the urge to come back here was way too strong.

You light up a cigarette (you haven't smoked one in three years) and watch Jay trying to pick up girls who are trying way too hard to look legal. None of it bothers you. It just makes you feel better.

"Can I bum one?"

You look around and it's a pretty and somber-looking girl with brown eyes. She looks tired: boy troubles, or something. You wonder how old she is.

"Sure." And you even light it for her, because even if you've had a shitty day there could be someone who's had it worse.

You reflect later on how it's lucky (and _much_ later on how it's maybe fate) that she bummed that first cigarette from you. Had it been some guy, her night might have ended up with a broken condom, but with you it was almost two hours of good conversation and milkshakes at an all-night diner, which was probably better for her bad day.

two

It's after the third time you've babysat, and by now the girl from the Ravine, the mom, it turns out, is home, and she collapses on the couch just as exhausted as you are. You like this job, you like kids and you really like Isabella because she's sweet (and pretty like her mom). It's a better way to make money than the Cinema (that place just reminds you of Paige) or the Zanzibar (no reason needed there), and besides you like doing this for a friend. Because after that night at the Ravine you've found you like one another's company, and you've found you get one another pretty well even with two years age difference between you. You find yourself questioning why you had to find out if it's legal, and why you were relieved when you found that it is.

She sits next to you, limp as a dishrag, and this is the most tired you've seen her in a while so you shut off the TV to give her some peace. You think about leaving her, letting her alone to rest, but she speaks to you.

"I'm so sick." Her voice is hollow.

"Of?" you say patiently.

"Of everything I've been doing with my life."

You want to help her, fix her, and you know exactly what to do to do it (how can you fix her if you can't fix yourself?), but you wouldn't, never, unless you got the go-ahead.

"And I just think about," she goes on, brown eyes cast over to the far wall, "you, what you've told me, and it really seems like all your problems were gone when you were done with men.

You swallow and shrug. "One problem started then."

She turns to look at you, eyes grave in the lamplight. "She was stupid. She didn't know what she had."

And maybe it's you and maybe it's her, but it's probably both, and you both lean in like you'd been thinking about doing this. Maybe you had, in the back of your mind where you couldn't even read it, but three parts of it are impulse. Your lips meet, gently touching in the half-light of a lamp with a sputtering bulb. Your nerves scream in velvet pleasure to be meeting her skin, the softest you've _ever_ felt, hands down. She exhales into your mouth, and the two of you move so slowly.

three

"Come on," you mutter, hunched over chasing the giggling two-year-old, "C'mere, Izzy."

You finally catch her, and wrap your arms snug around her waist and lift her into the air. She screams with delight, laughter bubbling as she kicks her tiny legs, and you swing her down on the couch. You plop down beside her, the squirming kid sandwiched between her mom and you.

"Movie time," you say, tickling Isabella's ribs. Her tiny body wriggles like an eel's.

Mia beams at you as she grabs the remote, those brown eyes bright with warmth. Every time she stays home on a babysitting night (not really babysitting anymore then, but oh well) it rejuvenates the smile in her eyes the way sleep does for her batteries. You know it's because she loves her daughter, and you like to think you make her happy too. Maybe (probably) having you both at the same time is what it is.

The movie starts and you grab your phone to put it on silent: two text messages from Paige and three missed calls. She wants to talk. You know what that means, you've heard it before. And because you're happy, you're happy right _now_, you ignore it. You turn your phone completely _off_ and stick it in your pocket.

Mia's eyes meet yours, those damn beautiful brown eyes, and you share a smile. Your chest automatically swells with air you have to inhale when she looks at you like that, or else you'll forget to breathe. You know it's kind of dumb, but with her you feel like you're one. No, scratch that, you think as you snuggle deep into the couch's cushions with a sigh; with the three in this room all together like this, you're one.


	5. Echo: Emma N, Ellie N

_**Author's Note:** This one's a drabble (what counts as a drabble, technically? 100 words? 200? Idk, I call short ones drabbles). And you guys, I kindof took Emma's name out of the Hat. Once you're used twice, you're gone. It's only fair. _  
_So do you remember that episode where Emma's a Purple Dragon model or whatever & she goes nude in front of the whole school to protest it? ...Yeah. Keep that in mind._

* * *

**Echo**

**Pairing:** Emma N./Ellie N.

She falls into step with you in the halls, the late bell echoing in your ears and a red flush still echoing on your cheeks (embarrassment, triumph, all rolled in one?).

"I liked the protest," she comments softly, neutrally. "You were something else."

You recall the Purple Dragon fabric sliding from your skin to the floor, the gasps and round eyes all around. Derek, front and center, looking like he'd found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. You recall the nanosecond when you scanned for Ellie's eyes… but you couldn't find them.

"Thanks," you rasp, keeping it cool. You slide your gaze over to Ellie, and sure enough, her eyes on you now are just how you thought they'd be at the assembly: bright, sly, hungry. She's smiling like a crouching lion. You allow a grin to spread across your lips as you turn your gaze forward again.

"Eight-thirty," you say in a low voice, just as you part ways for separate classes.

"Sure." If you turn around right now you would see her lips curling up in anticipation of the echo of your stunt at the assembly she knows she's going to get later.


	6. Curves: Darcy E, Jane V

_**Author's Note:** I love this pairing to death. I really do. :)  
Oh, and I have no idea where the second person went for this story. First person just came out of nowhere. _

* * *

**Curves**

**Pairing:** Darcy E./Jane V.

So I looked once or twice.

Maybe more.

Okay, so I looked a _lot_. Here I am in study hall, the silence enveloping me like cotton, and my eyes are pendulums swinging up and down. From my notes, to the shape of her back a few rows up. From the blue lines on the paper, to the syrup-colored strands of hair curtaining the faint outline of a bra strap under her white shirt. From the pulpy white texture between the college rule, to…

This is the part where I blink and clear my throat, rasping sandpaper. If I let my gaze crystallize any further, before long I'll be thinking in terms of fucking poetry. And all I know on _that_ subject is that roses are red and violets are blue, so how I start getting this way is far beyond me.

So of course I peek one last time.

She's got those curves, you know? Not the 36-24-36 kind, cause she's more lithe and lean, but _those curves_. The ones just above her hips, where the only other term is "love handles", and that way of saying it just tastes like bad coffee. No, the subtle parentheses at the base of her torso where your palms are supposed to blossom out as your hands travel down her sides. _Those_ curves. Hers rest symmetrically between the bars of the chair, white shirt fabric slipping up as she chews on her pencil eraser.

This is the part where I go back to the paper, chewing my lower lip forcefully for a reason I don't even know. Before I know it I'll be thinking in terms of pastels and charcoals, and all I know on that subject is that this girl doesn't belong on the confines of… _paper_ (it skitters under my fingertips, as they pretend the dry texture is really cotton, cotton sheets or shirts or study hall oxygen…). Because the Mona Lisa smiles, the Girl with the Pearl Earring glows, and she does all these things, _sure_, but none of them have got those curves.

I don't think anyone's got them the way that she does.

When the bell rings I'm out of my seat nice and slow, heaving my books under one arm to carry them like a boy does. As usual. Amidst the sluggish throng of kids trickling out of the door, I find myself right next to Mona Lisa herself. She's juggling a stack of books in her arms with her eyes on her hands, and our shoulders are scraping.

"Hey," I say simply. Her eyes dart up in mild surprise, though in all other respects she's pretty unreadable. (Just give me a while longer, let me get to know her, I swear I'd be able to read her expressions.) But for this time, this is the first time I've spoken to her.

"Hi," she says slowly, still caught off guard, a smile spreading across her mouth. It doesn't bother me that she probably doesn't even know my name, some Lakehurst kid. Some dyke type of stranger saying hi to a cheerleader. Doesn't make sense. Still, I leave out the pessimism that would make me back off. It's not my style to think in terms of what could go wrong.

"Aren't you in my World History class?"

"Umm." She glances to the side and bites her lip, looking for me back in fourth hour. "Yeah, I think so."

We squeeze through the doorway, skin and sleeves brushing, and it's not awkward until the jostling crowd of students pushing its way out of the classroom forces her to stumble against me. Her fingers, curled around the spine of her Calculus textbook, press my stomach. Her chin nearly knocks mine. Instinctively, my hand flies out to her waist, keeping her from toppling over.

A growl of surprise stirs in my throat, trickling down my windpipe like Tabasco sauce. A matching heat spreads through the marrow of my fingers, igniting the skin that's touching the soft cotton of her shirt. See, this was fate. It happens in the movies all the time, where the girl trips into the guy and they stare into each other's eyes for one magical, suspended moment in each others' arms. With her book jabbed into my gut, her foot crushing mine, and with my hand upon her _curves_, I feel these two whole seconds explode in color.

"Woah, are you okay?" I say hoarsely; she regains her footing and steps back, juggling her books. My scorched fingers drop to my side. Time resumes its normal pace, cogs grinding back to life.

"Yeah." She smiles weakly and touches her hair, smoothing it back into place.

I let a hesitant, reassuring grin tug the corners of my lips towards my gums. "Cool." I'm aware that I must be getting close to looking bashful, and there's nothing left to say. All that there is now is smiling at each other, standing awkwardly, comfortably, off to the side of the doorway. Why she's still standing with me, I don't know.

"So," I say in a low, even tone as she bites her lower lip. "I'll, uh… I'll see you around then."

"Okay." And this time, even though she's still unreadable and distant like a stranger, when she smiles the dimples appear in her cheeks and the Tabasco settles in the pit of my stomach with a sweltering hiss. "See you around, Jane."

_But… wait, but I'd never introduced myself._


	7. Doppelganger: Mia J, Manny S

_**Author's Note:** I don't know why I never thought to explore this pairing. I kind of like it. _

* * *

**Doppelganger**

**Pairing:** Mia J./Manny S.

It's no secret why your co-captain Darcy isn't keen on letting Mia on the squad; the teen mom's past makes her Undesirable Number One for your super-Christian "friend". What _is_ a secret, on the other hand, is why you're so keen to see Mia succeed. It could have something to do with the fact that she fascinates you, since that could have been you, but what would Darcy say if she knew you had had an abortion once? You don't want to know what she, or anyone else, would say. And that's why it's a secret.

So yeah, maybe you want to take Mia under your wing because you see some of yourself in her. Or maybe you want to see more of yourself _in her_. But no, that's too vulgar for a hardly-credible inkling, even for you. You _might_ possibly want to see more of yourself with her, because to you she's Desirable Number One.

You run through the reactions in your head, the way you do whenever you get a little nervous and a little breathy about this _maybe bisexual_ thing and start wringing your hands. You think about how the general public of Degrassi would react to that bit of information. Some would be utterly shocked, disbelieving your change of preference given your alarmingly torrid history indicating an inescapable addiction to _dick_. Others would be nonplussed, having seen it coming all along, since most sluts broaden their horizons like this sooner or later. Either way, it's none too flattering. You know that caring about your reputation is a bit pointless at this stage of the game, but still you're terrified as is that anyone will find out your secret. The _maybe bisexual_ one.

It's not like Mia is the first girl you've liked, either. The very first was Emma, but it was more of a combining-best-friend-love-with-seeing-a-girl's-body-in-this-light-for-the-first-time type of thing. Plus, your confusion at sexual attraction to your _best friend's_ body sort of threw everything into an upside-down whirl. You loved her looks in one (_new_) way, and you loved _her_ in another. One was harmless, normal; the other scared the living shit out of you. No, embarking on the liking-girls journey with a crush on your best friend really started it off with an overwhelming bang. But soon those feelings for Emma passed (thankfully), and moved on to others. Lots of others. Paige, even, for a _very_ brief spell.

Now it's the new girl, the girl with a past, the girl who has to push and challenge to get respect and who reminds you of yourself so much you wonder how weird it is that you've maybe fallen for your own doppelganger. Narcissism at its basest?

But no, you don't love yourself _that_ much. You love yourself hardly at all, and Mia is _not_ so much like you. She's better, that much you know. She's got brown eyes like you, but they're set in a much prettier, much more delicate face. She's prettier, and she's possibly more talented (you can't remember the last time you could do the splits like that, even though you spread your legs plenty, and you haven't had a _kid_ like her), and she's without a doubt braver. Brave enough to have the baby, brave enough not to lie about it, brave enough to walk with her head held high.

And you want to find out more ways that she's better than you. You want to get to know her better, to uncover more strengths that will just make her more beautiful to you, because you know they're there. They have to be.

If and when you get to that point, you know you might just fall in love with her, this beautiful riddle of a girl with kissably troubled lips and perfect flaws. But for now, you've just got this curious crush on your pseudo-doppelganger.


	8. Red Handed: Ms Hatzilakos, Liberty V

_**Author's Note:** Would you believe me if I said when I drew this pair I literally screamed aloud? I knew it was gonna be interesting no matter who I drew as the pairing for my wild card (Hatzilakos), but Lady Luck must love me because I got the perfect companion. The girl I hate most in the whole series, besides her lover JT (the arc of episodes when Liberty & JT were going through all those horrible hardships together just had me giggling). _  
_You know what to do. :)_

* * *

**Red Handed**

**Pairing:** Ms. Hatzilakos/Liberty V.

"What's wrong?" you croak, swallowing thickly past the hard lump in your throat. All vestiges of composure and diplomacy have long since fled you, and you're now reduced to a nervous, sweating mess. You shouldn't be so rattled, since you've raced through your mental filing cabinet (of course your brain would be a series of alphabetized files, would anyone who knows you be surprised?) and could find nothing that you should be guilty of, but still. Ms. H. already said that you were in very serious trouble. You don't even have a guilty conscience, and yet you're such a goody-two-shoes that the slightest whiff of a threat is terrifying. You're kind of ashamed of yourself for it.

Ms. H. slowly stalks around her desk, her narrowed eyes boring into you like lasers. You've seen her angry before, in discipline mode, but never has this secret weapon been leveled on you. "I think you know, Liberty," she says in a low, dangerous voice.

"N-no," you stammer, "I have no idea." A bead of sweat rolls down your jaw; only you could get so worked up over a visit to the principal's office, but this _is_ you we're talking about after all. You _never_ get in trouble. You have perfect grades, perfect attendance, a perfect conduct record. You were the kid that always ratted out the other kids in grade school. You're a class-A _teacher's pet_. Getting into trouble in school is to you just as bad as getting arrested.

Yep, you're _that_ kid.

"Don't play dumb with me, missy," Ms. H. hisses, hunching over her desk with both palms flat down on it. "I know it was you."

"What did I do?" you squeak, fingers curling skittishly on the arms of the chair. "I haven't done anything!"

"Enough with the lies!" your principal barks, slamming her hand on the desk. You twitch violently and sit, ramrod-straight, perfectly still in your seat, eyes bulging behind their frames.

"Listen," Ms. H. continues, her tone of voice lowering ominously, "We found your fingerprints all over the can of spray paint left at the scene of the vandalism. We ran a test crossing the graffiti with a sample of _your_ handwriting, and they're a one hundred percent match." She pauses, and her steely eyes flash as she licks her lower lip in anticipation. "Did you really think you'd get away with it?"

"But I…" you flounder, "That's impossible! Those tests _have_ to be wrong. I would never, I never vandalized any-"

"Give it up already, Liberty," Ms. H. growls, coming from behind her desk. "You've been caught."

"But I-"

"_Red handed_." She grabs you by the wrist and wrenches your hand up into view. Your slippery, sweating palm is completely covered in bright red paint. You gape in horror at it, like it belongs to someone else, before you tear your gaze away and slowly bring forth your other hand. That one, too, is splashed with garish red paint, like blood. Blood from a murder you would swear on your life you didn't commit, because even though al the evidence points to your guilt, you're not the one who sprayed the graffiti. You would never do something like that, this school is too sacred to you.

"I've been framed," you protest weakly, your voice cracking from strain and disbelief. "I didn't do it, honest to god, someone planted all this. You've got to believe me!"

Ms. H. just scowls at you, her iron grip tightening. "We have ways of making you talk."

"But I never-"

"Shut up!" she hisses, bringing her face close to yours. You shut up, trembling dumbly at the close proximity of your seething principal. Her body heat radiates angrily, bouncing off of you, and you fear she's going to hurt you. You know it's illegal in schools in this day and age, but Ms. H. probably knows you fear and respect the system too much to ever talk.

She knows her discipline well. She leans and presses her body closer to yours, and you break into a cold sweat. You would admit to some vandalism now, you would admit to anything. You would admit to bullying Rick Murray.

"Ms. H. -" you gasp, neck bobbing your heavy head up and down feebly.

"Shut up," she repeats, pressing your wrist to the arm of the chair as her chest pushes against yours and her pants-suited leg glides between your thighs.

You gulp, inhaling sharply through cracked and swollen lips that feel like they've never seen Chapstick. Your throat is like sandpaper, and you'd give anything right now for some water. This can't be happening right now, it can't be happening… Ms. H.'s manicured fingernail slowly trails up your sweater just like the thin line between your horror and euphoria. The trail it leaves behind is like hydrochloric acid eating through the fabric right through to your skin. When she was your science teacher she taught about proper care in handling these chemicals, she should know better…

"I didn't do it," you wheeze pitifully, a broken record, as Ms. H.'s knee slides against your inner thigh. This can't be regulation disciplinary proceedings. It can't be. But how would you know? You've never been in this grave of trouble before. Is this how she deals with all serious troublemakers? Is this how she got Spinner to confess to bullying Rick?

Ms. H. doesn't tell you to shut up again. Instead, she digs her fingernails in the thigh her hand is resting on. As you gasp, she brings her mouth down near your ear.

"I know you did it," she purrs dangerously, breath tickling your ear and sending violent shivers up and down your spine. "And when I make you talk, you _will_ be expelled."

"No," you whisper in terror, heart pounding as goosebumps break across your arms.

"Oh yes," Ms. H. says, and her nails dig in you once again.

"No," you protest again, weakly, trying to shake your head, but it refuses to do much more than tremble.

"Yes," she murmurs, and you can feel the wicked grin curling up her lips as she brings them closer to yours.

"No."

"Liberty."

"No!"

"Liberty, wake up!"

Your eyes open with a jolt and you stiffen, gasping. Toby's concerned brown eyes peer owlishly down at you.

"You were sleeping," he says in a loud whisper, looking around cautiously (because he's just as anxious about getting caught talking in class as you are). Armstrong's back is turned up at the board.

"…Sleeping?" you croak, sitting up slowly.

"And having one heck of a nightmare, by the looks of it." Toby raises an eyebrow at you.

"A nightmare," you repeat, nodding. You shudder and wipe your sweating palms on your jeans. "Just a nightmare." Suddenly, remembering, you gasp and turn your hands over.

No red paint. Your hands are perfectly clean, just like they should be.

You let out a long sigh and deflate, relieved, over your already opened textbook.


	9. IOU: Fiona C, Ellie N

_**Author's Note:** I am thoroughly convinced that underneath Ellie's bitterly cynical exterior, she is a hopeless romantic. Most people who love music so much are.  
OH, btdubs: aIapologize for throwing in lesbian Jane again, but it's kinda this thing I do where Ihave her be gay in as many situations as possible, even when it's just a side mention. For example, see Squint (no seriously, read it. My personal favorite Degrassi story I've ever written. Which is not conceited for me to say at all or anything.)  
__reviewwsssss precioussssss_

* * *

**I.O.U.**

**Pairing:** Fiona C./Ellie N.

You see this girl and god, she's beautiful, and you fall in love. End of story.

Only it's not the end of the story. It's the very beginning, the beginning of everything. Your new life, your new start, and your heart probably crashes and implodes at the sight of those eyes because your emotions are already on hyperdrive from the huge step you're about to take, and wouldn't it happen to anyone?

Yeah, that color gray in someone's irises, and that color pink on someone's glossy lips, could make anyone crazy.

You noticed her when she sat down across from you, diagonally, at the airplane terminal where you're waiting for your flight. Though she's twenty feet or so away, she caught your eye when she sat down, businesslike, setting her purse on the seat beside her. The pretty girls always catch your eye. And you try not to stare, but you've honestly _never_ seen a girl this beautiful. She looks like she could be a model, with her willowy figure, long dark hair, and her expensively tailored clothes that look too stylish for travel. You steal a glance down at your own tattered jeans and Converse, your ratty backpack (from high school) sitting next to you. If it had ever crossed your mind that you maybe had a shot with a girl like that, it's gone now.

There's only so many times you can flip through the pictures of Saharan landscapes in the National Geographic you brought along before it starts to get old, and after a while you slip in your earbuds and occupy yourself by simply stealing glances at the girl. It's not like she'll catch you; she's absorbed in the June issue of Cosmo and besides, with so many people crossing back and forth in the terminal, why would she notice a nondescript red-haired girl in ripped jeans?

Love at first sight is a myth, but your sudden feelings are strong enough to _possibly_ bring you from a nonbeliever to a skeptic. She's that perfect. You slowly turn up the volume on your mp3 player, cranking up The Distillers, and let yourself get lost in drinking this girl in. She must be around twenty, same as you, maybe a year or two older. Her eyes, gray. That's the first thing you noticed about her. They're set in a narrow, serious-looking face with smooth pale skin. That's another thing you like; she's not fake bronzed, like every other girl who's desperate to be pretty. She makes delicate white skin look gorgeous.

You almost don't catch it when your flight is called over the loudspeaker, since your music is turned up so loud. But when the pleasant, neutral voice repeats "ten-fifteen to New York City", you slowly get to your feet and start to gather your bag with trembling hands. This is happening. This is really happening, you're really going. You're excited and terrified at the same time.

You almost forget about the girl sitting diagonally twenty feet across. As you start off towards your destination, you throw one last glance over your shoulder to her, hoping to cement that beautiful face in your memory because you'll never see her again. But she's gone. Her seat is empty. You know it's dumb because you don't even know anything about her, but your heart sinks.

It's nighttime and only getting later, so as everyone gets settled into their seats it's generally quiet and purposeful. You lug your bag down the aisle, trying not to get in anyone's way as it knocks incessantly against your knees with every step you take, until you find your seat. 24b, it's not going to be a window seat, which slightly relieves you because you're sort of scared of flying and looking out the window would only fuel your nerves.

27, 26, 25, 24…

It's her.

Your heart leaps to your throat when you stop up at your destination and find that the window seat occupant of 24a, your seat-mate, is none other than the gorgeous girl from the terminal. You stand there stupidly for a second, as she stares out the window, until she turns and notices you.

"Hi," she says in a melodic, neutral voice, those soulful gray eyes looking up at you. You can't help it. You get goosebumps.

"Hi," you echo, offering a shy smile. The girl smiles politely, and you figure you'd better stop blocking the aisle. You carefully drop into the seat beside her, setting your bag on the floor between your knees, and lean back slowly, a deep breath easing out of you. It's quiet for a few moments as you try to think of something to say.

"Are you scared of flying?" she asks before you can say anything. You turn to her, and her eyes are on your knuckles, white as you grip the armrest.

"Oh," you say absently as you realize you were clenching your hands so hard, releasing your grip and cracking your knuckles distractedly, "A little, I guess."

The girl gives you a faint smile. "It'll be fine, don't worry," she says, before turning away to look back out the window. It's dark, almost to the point of nothing being visible, so you wonder what she's looking for.

She's not very talkative, but that's okay with you, because for one thing your mind is racing too fast with thrilled anxiety about where this plane is taking you to handle too much conversation. And you don't think she doesn't talk to you because she's a snob, which would be the obvious answer. You're too infatuated with her to want to think that. Besides, you're not the chattiest of girls yourself. Most of the girls you knew in high school were like that, Paige and the others, and that's how a good amount of drama starts. In time, you found that the ones who didn't have to say a lot were the ones you could trust, like your first girlfriend, Jane. Maybe that's why you like this girl more now that you've gotten closer to her; she's low-key, and that's cool.

Of course, you also like her because she's gorgeous. There can't be much more to it than that, since after all you've barely said three sentences to her.

After you've gotten up in the air, she turns back to look at you. Her gaze sweeps you up and down curiously before she speaks.

"You doing okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, smiling. "Just a little jittery, I suppose."

"About the flight?"

You pause to think for a minute. "About after it, I think. Getting to New York."

"And why is that?" the girl asks thoughtfully. "What's waiting for you there?"

You blow out a huge sigh, looking around. "This internship. At the New York Times."

"Wow," she murmurs, raising her eyebrows, "The New York Times, that's impressive."

You shrug modestly and look at your knees. You _are_ proud of yourself, but then there's the problem of nerves about being able to make it on your own. Nerves about leaving behind everything and everyone you've ever known. Nerves, nerves, nerves of all sorts, and if you weren't so excited you'd probably die from how scared you are.

"Thanks," you finally answer, shyly (and a bit flushed with pleasure that this gorgeous girl, the one who's making the butterflies in your gut do figure eights, is impressed with your internship). "I'm just kind of nervous, is all. I've never taken a step this big on my own."

Now she smiles at you again, and you read encouraging warmth in her eyes. "I grew up in Manhattan myself, so I guess I'm not the best one to tell you that the city's nothing to worry about since I'm so used to it. But if it'll make you feel better, I felt the same as you when I moved last year. I went from the big city and all its glamour to this public school in Toronto. It was a pretty radical change. Change freaks everyone out, you know?"

"Yeah," you mumble, smiling gratefully.

"I mean," she continues, gesturing, "I bet at least a quarter of the people on this plane are moving too. You're not alone."

Your heart swells with appreciation for this girl, for how kind she's being for trying to make you feel better. That plus her stunning looks; can she just marry you already?

"So," you begin tentatively, a minute later, "What's your name?"

"Fiona," she replies (like it's completely normal, thank god, you were worried she would think it weird that you, a total stranger, would ask) and offers her hand. For just a split second you're overrun by an urge to take it and kiss it, like she's the fair maiden to your knight – but that's your imagination being ridiculous. That's you letting the inner romantic you'd thought (hoped) had withered and died years ago making an embarrassing appearance. Where's the cynical-to-the-point-of-almost-being-bitter drinker of coffee almost as black as her soul? Not here, obviously, because that girl wouldn't have compulsions to kiss anyone's hand.

You opt to extend your own and shake.

"Ellie."

Tingles creep from your fingertips all the way to your ears, which burn as you try to get through a simple action like shaking hands without totally melting into a puddle on the floor. As Fiona takes her hand back and settles back in her seat, you do the same, and pray that you're not blushing.

This is humiliating. But in a good way.

The girl – Fiona – spends a while with her headphones in after that, eyes shut, so you don't bother her. You steal glances every couple of minutes, guiltily, afraid that while your eyes are scanning her long legs, hers will pop open and catch you staring like a total creep. So your glances are fleeting. After a little while, though, she sheds her headphones (you're dying to know what kind of music she was listening to, but that's too nosy a question to ask of a perfect stranger) and brings out the Cosmo again. Now you can safely talk to her again (where the _hell_ is the bravery around girls you thought you'd amassed at university?).

"So Fiona," you begin casually. She looks up, gray eyes clear and patient. Good, she's not annoyed at being disturbed. (Honestly, this is ridiculous. What is it, your first meek girl-crush on Alex all over again?). "What awaits _you_ in New York?"

She looks to the ceiling thoughtfully. "Home, basically. I've missed Manhattan terribly, I couldn't stand to waste my summer vacation in Toronto."

"Where do you go to school?" you ask curiously, shifting your leg out from under you in your seat. "Banting?" For some reason Paige's posh (posher than yours, at least) school comes to mind; it would definitely fit this girl sitting next to you, you know that much.

"What? No." She giggles, those eyes dancing with amusement. "I'm not in college."

"Oh," you sigh. It's a touchy subject, you suppose; at least it is for you. You feel awkward talking about other people's education and career choices. For all you know, this girl is a dropout. Maybe she never went, maybe she wasn't smart enough to get in… None of those could be, though, you're determined that this girl is as smart and as successful as she is pretty. Could she have graduated already? It's possible. Though if she's _that_ much older than you, your shot with her is even further diminished. Great.

"I'm only seventeen," she admits with a grin, seeming very entertained by the fact that she could pass as a college student.

"What?" you blurt as your head snaps quickly to her, disbelief coloring your voice far more than you think it should. "You are?"

"Yes," she chuckles. "That hard to believe?"

"Well… yeah." You could have sworn she was at least twenty. But no, she's not… She's not even legal.

"It's true," she replies, nodding. "I don't go to Banting, I go to some shitty public high school called Degrassi."

If you were shocked before, it's nothing compared to now.

"No way," you say, jaw dropping. "I totally went to Degrassi."

"For real?" she replies curiously, smiling.

"Absolutely. Graduated and everything."

"Wow," she says slowly, shaking her head. "Small world, huh?"

"I'll say."

You're about to ask her a question about Simpson, or about the shitty computers, or about the even shittier football team, but it's just then that the overhead comes on. The pleasant female voice tells you that you'll be landing soon, and asks you to fasten your seatbelts.

"Great," you murmur, clicking your belt's buckle into its slot. Fiona does the same right next to you. This is the part you were dreading; takeoff wasn't so bad, since there's not much chance of crashing while you're trying to get up in the air. It's the landing that could go horribly wrong. Who knows if those flimsy wheels at the bottom of the plane even work? The whole plane could very well go skidding into the airport and burst into flames. Hell, it might have nothing to do with faulty landing gear. You could just smash right into the tarmac nose-first. Suddenly, the internship in the city doesn't seem like that much to worry about. Not when there's a chance you might not live to experience it.

"Hey," Fiona says beside you, brow creased in concern as she looks you up and down. "You okay?"

You take a shallow breath and squeeze your eyes shut. "Not really," you manage to get out through a tight jaw. Once again your knuckles are white on the armrest; you imagine the rest of your skin is, too, like it usually gets when you're nauseous, scared, or both. You're sure it must make your freckles look extremely attractive in contrast. Maybe you _do_ want to die.

"It's alright," Fiona says softly. "We're gonna be fine. Here, just keep your eyes shut. It'll be over soon." And with that, you feel her warm hand envelope yours. Her fingers thread through yours and she squeezes reassuringly.

She's holding your hand. She's really holding your hand.

Maybe the girl had just meant to be comforting, something to squeeze on while the plane touches down, but it's the perfect distraction because your heart is fluttering (stupidly) in your throat from the sensation. It doesn't matter that she's only seventeen and it's kind of wrong, you're undeniably attracted to her and she's _holding_ your _hand_. Her impossibly soft skin touching yours is bliss. And this time there's no doubt about it; you're blushing. You feel the heat surge to your cheeks, unrelenting, but all you can do is keep your eyes shut and will it away.

When the plane touches down safely, you're almost sad. Sad that this moment has to end. You slowly open your eyes and look over towards Fiona, blinking blearily.

"You good?" she says with a slow smile that brings the curl across her lips to the corners like breaking dawn. Her hand is still intertwined with yours, and she gives another squeeze as her gaze flickers from your eyes down to your cheeks. Mortified that she can see the traces of color there, you pray that even more doesn't flood back. But that prayer isn't answered. You blush again. You wish the plane had crashed.

"Yeah," you croak, nodding, and take your hand back. If not for the fact that her skin is like silk, it would have seemed like velcro ripping apart.

Fiona bites her lip. "Cool."

You each busy yourselves with gathering your carry-on luggage, not saying much.

When it's time to part ways later on at baggage, you turn to Fiona and she turns to you.

"Well," you begin awkwardly, "It's been fun."

"Sure has," she replies with a small smile, hitching the strap of her bag on her shoulder again. "Good luck with your internship, Ellie."

"Thanks," you reply, unable to help the grin that slowly spreads across your features. This is the part where you come right out with it and say something flirtatious. This is the part where you ask for her number so you can see her again. Fuck her probably certain heterosexuality, fuck the fact that she's jailbait, you _need_ to do it. You'll never see this girl again if you don't.

"Well," you sigh, looking around the huge space for some kind of inspiration. "'Bye then."

Fiona gives you one last smile, and her clear gray eyes flash with something you can't place. Regret, maybe? Jet lag? "'Bye." And with that, she hitches up her bag once more and walks away.

You watch her go for a few seconds, pathetically forlorn. Your only consolation is that now her face _is_ cemented in your memory.

It's much later that you manage to actually get out of the airport. You lug your bags behind you and emerge out into the dark pickup area, scanning for a taxi. That goes on hold for a moment, though, as you pause to take in your first sight of the city, adorned beautifully by a blanket of stars. You just space out for a few seconds like an idiot, looking around, until you realize you're blocking the flow of people leaving.

"Oh, sorry," you mutter to no one in particular.

It only takes a few tries for you to successfully hail a taxi, far less than you thought you would need. Though, they're all milling around waiting to be used, so it really doesn't count for much.

"Hi," you say breathlessly to the driver as you get into the back seat, once your big bags are stowed in the trunk. "Um… here." You fish for the address you're going to on a scrap of paper and hand it up front when you find it.

Suddenly, the door opposite you opens. "Can I share?" a voice floats in. "I'm not far, I swear."

You open your mouth to speak, but the person already disappears from the door to put her things in the trunk, having apparently already decided that she's coming with.

"I-" you begin as the other passenger swiftly drops in beside you and shuts the door. Then you recognize her. You've lost count how many times your jaw has dropped tonight.

"Hey," Fiona greets you with a grin as the cab gets rolling.

"Small fucking world, huh?" you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

"You don't say."

The girl likes to throw you for loop after loop. It probably wouldn't faze you at this point if she ends up showing up at the Times when you go in for your first day. You're really not complaining, though. You thought you were seeing her for the last time at the baggage claim, but here she is in the flesh. It's kind of pathetic, but you had almost forgot how gorgeous this girl was since you saw her last.

Her stop really isn't far, though. The cab rolls to a halt before you know it, and Fiona reaches to unbuckle her seat belt. "Goodbye, again," she says with a short laugh. You smile faintly, but you're crestfallen. You're really crushing on this girl, loath though you are to admit it since you've only just met her.

She starts to get out but stops as her leg exits the car. She draws it back in and turns to you, eyes flashing with hesitation. Then she smiles.

"Listen," she says slowly. "This is the part where I would go in for a kiss, but as you know, I'm not legal. I turn eighteen in ten days; I hope this I.O.U. can cut it."

You stare dumbfounded as she glances fleetingly at your mouth, biting her lip. She presses a slip of paper into your hand, just as quickly and deftly as she had done so with her own hand when the plane was landing. Tingles erupt in your abdomen, skittering up and down your nerve endings as Fiona pulls herself away and out of the car. She leans down to catch your eye.

"See you," she says with a brief, puzzling smile. The door slams.

As the cab speeds away, you look down at the note pressed into the palm of your hand.

_I.O.U.  
__555-4192  
__-Fiona_


	10. Execution: Paige M, Ashley K

_**Author's Note:** I wrote this all in one sitting and while I was writing it, I absolutely loved it. Then the next day I reread it and realized it's confusing. But that might just be my craziness. Anywho, I still really like it even though it confuses me. Me, the one who gave birth to it. I'm fucked up, huh. _

* * *

**Execution**

**Pairing:** Paige M./Ashley K.

The execution of this plan was quick and clean, just the way it played out in your head. Well okay, maybe the entire situation was pretty messy. That's just the opinion of some outside perspective though. That's probably the opinion of the casualty of this whole thing too, but you don't give a shit. If you do give a shit, it's a shit you give when you kind of want the other person to be overwhelmed and so totally _slammed_ (and going off to the girls' room to cry in between classes). Make any sense? It wouldn't to anyone but you. It's kind of not your style to explain your workings to anyone anyway, though, since no one does you much good when they're completely clued in.

The execution of Ashley Kerwin, you could call it. The idea spreads a smile across your lips, slow and smooth just like red ink spilled on a tablecloth. It's the same smile you got when the idea first struck you, only this time there are no hot tears mingling, and this time the pleasure is in retrospect, not anticipation. The whole thing happened as seamlessly as a Rube Goldberg contraption; it really was as easy as tipping one domino and watching everything fall right into place. You just supplied a tiny bit of Ecstasy, and there; the girl ends up totally screwed. The best part is, the entire fiasco is in essence her own damn fault. If you had ever had second thoughts about whether or not to feel guilty (for the record, you didn't), you just reminded yourself of that and you're okay again. More than okay, in fact; you're still so over the moon at how easy it all was. Clean and orderly, like a state-ordered execution. Painless to watch (for you at least), and if it was painful for the one on the chopping block, well, too late to give a shit about _those_ feelings. Not like you would anyway, after what she did.

The execution of Paige Michalchuk came like a tsunami; out of nowhere and devastating. You like to think you're a strong girl, but this one hit you like no other. It might have had something to do with your difficulty with dealing with rejection, but it might also have had something to do with just how much you'd had invested in this girl. You don't get the chair for just any crime; it's always the heaviest ones, the most serious ones, and you suppose this can't be much different. You went and fucking fell in _love_, and it doesn't get much graver than that. A whirlwind romance, sure, and a bit cliché, but it was the best fling you (thought you) had ever flung; like magic and hypnosis and ambrosia all mixed in one. When something that good gets broken, and when that something belongs to _you_ (that something you're thinking of might just be your heart), shit goes down. You're not ashamed to admit you're a huge fan of revenge; the whole concept gratifies and rejuvenates your spiteful soul like an elixir.

That's the whole point of retributive justice, isn't it? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. Well, the theory suits you just fine. Ashley Kerwin broke your fucking heart, so you destroyed her entire fucking reputation. It's what you consider a perfectly fair trade.


	11. Ask Jane: Jane V, Alli B

_**Author's Note:** I've had most of this written for a long time. A **long **time; it was totally supposed to be Hat Trick number 6, but I was just so put off by the pair that I couldn't ever find motivation to keep writing. Does it even count as femslash? Idk. Anywho, it's set back when Alli was a freshman and before she was a skank, blah blah blah no one cares about her. Please review folkssssss.  
P.S. Looks like it's the end of Jane for these Hat Tricks. Ugh, used up on Alli. What a waste._

* * *

**Ask Jane**

**Pairing:** Jane V./Alli B.

They're nice people; they're _really_ nice people, Sav's parents, so they ask you to stay for dinner. Well, it's Mrs. Bhandari specifically who does the asking. There's a soft knock on Sav's bedroom door, and he looks up from the notebook where he's scribbling down chords and yells, "Yeah?"

The kindly face of Sav's mom peers around the door, blinking over at the two of you sitting together on the bed before she realizes that no, there's no funny business going on here, you really _are_ just going over some band stuff. Her face visibly softens with relief.

"Jane, would you like to stay for dinner?" she asks. And it's kind of silly, but you're a little nervous, you have been all evening because you'd never met Sav's parents before and their house is really nice and makes you feel a little self-conscious. Sav had warned you beforehand that his parents would be wary of him having a girl over because, well, they're old fashioned, so that just added to your nerves.

But you really want to make a good impression.

"Sure," you say politely, "Thanks." You grin widely, and beside you Sav slowly plasters a queasy smile to his mouth. He's wondering if this will go well.

So later on you're sitting with the Bhandari family: Mr. and Mrs. B., Sav, and Alli. You feel pretty out of place, with your nose piercing and your heavy eyeliner and your light skin. But it's not some weird unfamiliar food you're having, it's just pasta, so you're not _too_ uncomfortable. And Sav's parents might be really conservative, but they're also really nice. They ask you a lot about school and the band, while Alli rolls her eyes at them and Sav stays pretty quiet, eating fast so this can be over with and he can drag you back upstairs.

"So," Mrs. Bhandari says mysteriously, her eyes twinkling as she passes the salad tongs to her husband, "Do you have a boyfriend, Jane?"

"Mom!" Sav exclaims, mortified. His younger sister's gaze flashes to you and she giggles; you know it's not just because this is slightly embarrassing, the way she smirks knowingly. Sav probably wouldn't have told her anything, he's too loyal even though it's no secret; the information that you're a lesbian must have simply spread to the whole school, even trickled down to the lower grades at Degrassi. It doesn't matter either way, though, as long as no one gives you shit (which they don't) and as long as no one's uptight parents find out and hate you for it.

You might have to watch your back with that second one here.

"No, Mrs. Bhandari, I don't," you answer truthfully.

Her brow creases. "But you're such a _pretty_ girl."

"Mom!" Sav repeats at an increased volume, though there's nothing really offensive about what his mom had said at all.

"What?" She raises her hands in defense, eyebrows jumping up to her hairline. "I was just asking."

Sav just shoots her a venomous look, one that says to drop it and stop embarrassing him (really, you're pretty sure he's more embarrassed than you are). After that, the subject instantly changes to American Idol.

Once dinner is over, Sav could not have whisked you upstairs faster if there were police knocking on the door looking for you. You offer to help with the dishes, but he answers for his mother, refusing, before she can say anything and practically pushes you out of the room.

An hour later it's gotten dark, but the time has flown because you and Sav are co-writing a new song for the band and you always get really excited and into it when it comes to music. You don't want to stop, but you need a break sometime.

"Bathroom," you announce simply, rolling off the bed. Sav just looks up quickly and nods before going back to his spiral notebook.

On the way back to Sav's room you walk the upstairs hallway slowly, drinking in the décor of a house this nice. The carpet is plush and doesn't make any sound from your measured footfalls as you observe family portraits, potted plants, and (it's a good thing it's deserted up here) rooms whose doors are left open. You wouldn't want anyone to think you're snooping. That's why you avoid the rooms with closed doors; opening them and taking a look inside is just overkill, and really legitimately _is_ prying.

You walk past a shut white-paneled door and linger at an end table, a half-smile creeping up your lips at a picture of Sav – circa second or third grade – with a bowl cut and crooked front teeth.

"Hey, Jane," comes a lowered voice from your left.

You look up, caught off guard and in the middle of chewing your lip. "Hm?"

It's Sav's sister, Alli, leaning out of the half-open door you'd just passed, which must be her bedroom. Her eyes are bright with energy over something.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Yeah," you reply, still reacting a little slowly, "Sure." She motions for you to follow you into her room.

You wander in, distracted by all the pastels as Alli sits primly on the edge of her bed. The room you're standing in is possibly the girliest of any you've ever encountered; wall-to-wall posters of shirtless guys from some bands that kind of suck, and the one from that vampire movie that most straight girls are crazy over. Alli sits there, and you wonder if you're supposed to drop down next to her. Instead, you stand for a bit.

"What's up?"

"Well…" Alli trails off and looks away, uncharacteristic of her usually in-your-face attitude. Whatever it is must be hard to talk about, a secret, or both. With a jolt, the idea that she's going to ask your advice on sexuality flashes through your horrified mind. She's Sav's sister, of course, so you sort of like the kid (in an obligated sort of way), but if she's going to come out to you it will probably be more awkward than you can handle. Just because you're gay doesn't mean you've been trained in dealing with this kind of thing. You're in no way ready to be _anyone's_ mentor.

"It's kind of embarrassing, but I figured I'd ask you," she says slowly, sitting up rigidly and fidgeting in her lap. "You're the only one I know who would… _know_."

"Er…" you mumble, shifting from one foot to the other. "Know what?"

"Have a seat first," Alli blurts, patting the spot next to her. Your stomach turns over; is your bandmate's little sister _coming on to you_? Reluctantly you cross over to the bed and lower yourself, making sure to keep a healthy amount of space between yourself and Alli.

"Listen," you begin awkwardly. "Whatever this is, don't you want to talk to your mom about-"

"No!" she protests suddenly, repulsed by even the thought. You don't blame her, though; it was a lame suggestion. Never in a thousand years would _you_ ever go to a parent for advice on something serious.

"Right," you say grudgingly. "So what's up?"

"Okay." Alli takes a deep breath, her dark lashes fluttering dramatically. "Have you ever liked someone you really shouldn't?"

Your thoughts flash automatically to Darcy. Now _that_ was forbidden fruit for you, the most hopeless crush you've probably ever had. "Yeah," you sigh.

"Well," Alli goes on hesitantly, toying with her hands. "That's my problem right now. And it's totally different because they're _older_…" With this, she looks up at you with those round brown eyes and bites her lip nervously. Your heart flies up to your throat in horror; yes, this girl is definitely about to hit on you. She's saying "they", so her crush has to be a girl, and the way she's looking at you imploringly leaves no doubt in your mind that she's going to confess her love to you. You have no idea how you're going to figure out how to shut her down easy.

"…and like," she continues, gathering steam, "I know to them I'm just like a little kid, and I don't know how I can change how they see me. But that's not all, because I've never felt like this about anyone like _this_…"

"Well maybe it would be a good idea to forget ab-"

"Shit, this is awkward," she blurts, ignoring your shaky interjection with a distressed toss of her hair. This is awkward? That's an understatement. Your good friend's _little sister _is about to profess her love for you; you don't think you can handle the impossibly difficult situation of shutting the poor kid down, but there's no way in hell you would ever be interested, even if she isn't totally ugly at all. It's just… no way. You begin to panic as Alli clasps her hands together firmly in her lap and begins to draw in a determined breath. She's about to say it. You can't handle this. Your heart, on red alert, begins to pound like crazy. You have to say something, and quick.

"Alli, you're really nice and everything, but there's no w-"

"I have a crush on Johnny DiMarco!"

She all but shouts it, and it's hard for you to separate the words from how fast she said it. You don't say anything, just trying to wrap your head around what just happened, so she plows ahead.

"I know it's totally fucked up, since he's a senior and everything, but I _really _like him. Sometimes I feel like he likes me too, from the couple of times we've talked, but I'm worried I'm seeing things that aren't there. I mean, what kind of senior guy would like a freshman?"

"You like… Johnny?" you say stupidly. You're not the one she's attracted to. She's not crushing on you. Relief hits you like a blast of fresh air; all that stress over nothing. There was nothing to worry about. The disastrously sticky situation was all in your imagination.

"Totally out there, isn't it?" she groans, taking your stunned disbelief as doubt that her having a shot could ever happen in a million years. "But I figured, if anyone could help me, it's you. I mean, out of people I could actually talk to. Someone who knows him really well would be ideal, but I really don't think I could walk up to Moose and ask, 'Hey, how do I get your best friend to date me?' You've at least gone to school with him for a while, all the way back to Lakehurst, and I figured you would at least have _some _insight." She finishes her discourse with a queasy, hopeful grin.

"Right," you agree slowly, blinking vapidly. You're still recovering. "Well… I don't see why you wouldn't have a shot. You're a girl and… he likes those. That's about all there is to it with Johnny."

Alli's brow furrows. "But what-"

"And age is just a number. I doubt it matters to him all that much." You refrain from adding on to the end _'__as long as there's somewhere for him to stick his dick.' _Alli probably doesn't want to hear about her slimy crush's less-than-virtuous attributes. It's not really your place to ruin him for her; he can handle that one all on his own.

Finally, Alli relaxes slightly. She offers you a weak smile, which you mirror pathetically. "Thanks Jane," she sighs, letting out all that pent-up breath she must have been holding in anxiety over her passion for the grossest guy you know. "I actually feel a lot better about this now."

You smile awkwardly and get to your feet slowly. "Sure. Anytime." And when you say anytime, you really hope Alli doesn't take you up on it. She's a nice kid and all, and it's not really anything personal, but you're no expert on any of this shit. You're way too cynical to be of much help (it was all you could do to keep from saying what you really think of Johnny DiMarco), and the whole situation was just way too awkward. Freshman drama is so not your scene.

With one last brief glance at Alli, you exit (escape) as quickly as possibly. As you shut the door behind you, you feel almost insulted that the kid likes a guy like Johnny DiMarco in lieu of you.


End file.
